


The 'TTFC'

by Zeitvergessen (Wortspiel)



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Endgame Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff, Flynn's cooking, Friendship, Garcia Flynn Deserves Better, I do stress-writing, Introspection, POV Garcia Flynn, POV Lucy Preston, Self-Doubt, Some people do stress-baking, Switch of perspective, This story ignores the Timeless 'movie', hopefully it's not too horrible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:15:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26381008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wortspiel/pseuds/Zeitvergessen
Summary: So, now that he is about to cook, he struggles deciding on what to pick. Nothing too fancy, obviously. About every single limb of his body aches in some way, a constant unwelcome reminder of Emma’s latest hideous ideas, so he’ll settle for something easy.Easy and perfect to lighten up the mood.Pancakes.Nobody could ever say no to some pancakes, could they?
Relationships: Denise Christopher & Garcia Flynn, Garcia Flynn & Connor Mason, Garcia Flynn & Jiya, Garcia Flynn & Wyatt Logan, Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston, Rufus Carlin & Garcia Flynn
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29





	The 'TTFC'

**Author's Note:**

> While I'm still horribly stuck in my main fanfic to properly end 'Timeless' (I apologize, it's terrible. I try, but words just wont come to me.) my head turned a very stressful situation in my life into a totally random fluffy short story. It's certainly nothing special and currently I really doubt my writing in general. But well, here you go. Don't expect too much. Really. xD
> 
> And be undeterred by the stories beginning. It IS fluff. I promise. :D

Lucy sighs. He’s been gone for a while now and she can’t help it. Every now and then he sneaks into her mind, settles there, and makes her smile. And yearn. No matter how hard she tries to direct her thoughts elsewhere.

It's a secret talent that he owns. One that remains, even when he’s not there in person. One of many more she has learned to appreciate over the time she spent around him.

They had been circling around each other for far too long, careful, never sure if it was safe to come close. Never daring to oversteps their carefully crafted boundaries. Always teetering on the edge of something bigger, scarier, but, oh, so beautiful.

And once she had taken that little step forward, there had been no way back. Drawn into him, they had clashed, hard and relentless. And what had been so terrifying at first had become her new safety before she even knew what was happening.

Tugging her shawl a little tighter around her body, Lucy makes her way to the kitchen. The wine on the top shelf is awaiting there. Just a glass or two might help her though another lonely evening. And night. But as she steps close and reaches for the bottle of deep red liquid, her eyes settle on the book beside it.

Leather-bound and thin as it is, it nearly disappears between the tomes on history, novels, and pot plants. Still, a smile curves her lips as she remembers.

Slowly she turns away from the wine and reaches for the book instead. She pulls it off the shelf and leans backwards against the counter as she flips it open. Page for page she turns, backwards through the book, as her eyes flick across handwritten words.

Finally, her gaze settles on a recipe for pancakes, neatly noted in familiar manuscript. Even and upright like the man leading the pen. Proud letters gathering to descriptive directions on how to exactly achieve a well tasting pancake.

Again, a smile flickers across her face. Wine forgotten, she begins to gather the listed ingredients while her mind wanders into the past…

***

Their arrival is chaos. Literal chaos. Flynn watches as Jiya and Rufus help a limping Wyatt hobble down the flight of flimsy metal stairs into the hangar. Lucy follows them. Despite their general exhaustion, she is fussing over Wyatt. His wound is in no way life threatening, but it has to hurt like hell and, for once, Flynn does not secretly begrudge the man Lucy’s undivided attention.

Once the four of them have somehow made it down onto solid ground, Flynn dares sticking his own head out of the hatch. Jiya is already herding Wyatt off to patch him up, Rufus close behind to help before he’ll certainly sneak off to finally get that shower he’s been yearning for and whining about for almost three days now.

Lucy is held back by Agent Christopher and Mason to give them a short update on what has prolapsed over the time of their latest mission. Taken all together, it had been absolute hell. And for now, dwelling on it was not what he is eager to do. After giving his own short statement, he heads for the living area to settle on one of the couches and just rest for a minute or two, not yet ready to lock himself back into his room. But he doesn’t get that far. From the steps, he watches Lucy just about collapse onto the sofa and he decides to leave her in peace. She has earned it.

In his back, he hears the clatter of the keyboard as Mason types away, clearly researching whatever could have changed since their latest trip to the past. Agent Christopher is directing him, undoubtedly watching his progress with eagle eyes.

The shower being in use, just as the couches, Flynn decides to just do something he hasn’t done in a long time. He turns to the compartment of their bunker that might be called ‘kitchen’ if one squinted hard enough. He hasn’t eaten properly for days and neither have the people accompanying him. He takes it upon himself to change that.

He hasn’t properly cooked anything in years. Heated up some readymade goo pretending to be edible, yes. But he hasn’t cooked. Not on the run, not in his own hideout, obviously not in prison, and also not in the Time Team’s secret government hidey-hole. While everybody had taken their turn cooking, they had somehow always casually skipped right over him, never even mentioning it. (Trust issues? Probably. He wouldn’t blame them considering their very own private history. But maybe they just hadn’t considered his ability to cook. It wasn’t like he cares much about it. Mostly he tends to other, usually less desirable, chores – such as doing laundry, washing left-over dishes, cleaning away the somehow ever-present, magically reappearing grime in the bathroom.)

So, now that he is about to cook, he struggles deciding on what to pick. Nothing too fancy, obviously. About every single limb of his body aches in some way, a constant unwelcome reminder of Emma’s latest hideous ideas, so he’ll settle for something easy.

Easy and perfect to lighten up the mood.

Pancakes.

Nobody could ever say no to some pancakes, could they?

Opening few cupboards in search of a bowl and a pan, he begins to hum unconsciously.

Not everything he needs is in stock. Or at least he does not (yet) know where it's stored. So he takes what he finds and improvises a little. He’s been forgiven far worse, so Jiya surely wouldn’t mind if he used her remaining soymilk, would she? Shrugging to himself, he pours it into the mix. It isn’t like he could mess things up with the team any more. He’s done his best (or worst?) there already.

Stirring the batter to rid it of clumps, he reserves pondering that one again for later, when he’s alone in the solitude and safety of his room. For now, he’ll just focus on what he does, enjoy the strange normalcy of it, even if it’s not as real as he secretly wishes it to be. As much as he is convinced that he doesn’t deserve this, any of it, he can still dream. About a life after this war. About happier days. Reality won’t miss him for the few minutes he allows himself to drift off and imagine the future he might never live.

He’s sunken deep enough into his little daydream that he doesn’t notice the curious stare in his back immediately. When he does, he doesn’t need to turn to know who it belongs to. The clatter of an accidentally dropped TV remote gives her dead away. Craning his head, he casts a glance over his shoulder and spots her leaning over the sofa’s back, regarding him in a mixture of skepticism and hesitant wonder. What Lucy thinks, especially about himself, has been a mystery to him lately. More than ever before.

Right underneath his nose, she changes. And he likes it. It no longer surprises him that she doesn’t turn into the fierce fighter that had poured her soul into the journal that had guided him here. She is fierce, no doubt there, but she’s not as desperate, not as burned as the woman that had spoken to him through her writing. The Lucy he has come to know, for real this time, is courageous, despite their dire situation. She is demanding, sharp, broken, yes. But she’s also so very gentle and compassionate. And he prefers that over everything he has read. As much as the words had been comforting him when he had been lonelier than ever before, the person behind them paled in comparison to the radiant woman he was blessed to spend his days with.

He flashes her a brief smile before he returns to watching the batter change its aggregate state in the sizzling skillet. Soon enough, he hears her come close. A chair creaks and fabric rustles. Unbeknownst to her, his smile grows a little as he reaches for a plate.

Not much later, he hears, or rather does no longer hear, the constant tacka-tacka of keys. The sound is replaced by footfalls as Agent Christopher and Mason give up their research. He watches them, out of the corner of his eyes, as their own gazes flick back and forth between himself and Lucy, who is now comfortably hunched over on the table, waiting. He flips a pancake.

Two more chairs creak.

Rufus is the next to file in, babbling something about the lovely smell of sweet baked goods carrying him into the hangar - But he freezes visibly as he sees who exactly is cooking them. To Flynn’s amusement, he looks torn between slowly backing out again and drooling.

“I won’t poison you. No worries,” he promises, rather unnecessarily. “There are ways much more effortless to get rid of you.”

“Hahaa,” scoffs Rufus, before he joins his waiting team members, who are by now discussing this and that, carefully tiptoeing around speaking about anything too devastating. Which is quite the challenge with how they live now. Rufus does still look a little uneasy as he sits and Flynn almost regrets teasing him. But he reminds himself that Rufus does indeed trust him now. Mostly. Well, he no longer expects to be shot at. Which is some progress but Flynn sure can further improve that. He hopes so, at least.

The last to arrive are Jiya and Wyatt. Flynn is chopping fruit by now. A few bananas that are past their prime (but still usable) and he even found strawberries in the fridge. Agent Christopher has been generous lately. Or maybe she just tries to keep them as healthy as possible in this hole by feeding them vitamins. He doesn’t complain either way.

The soldier looks less pale, less pained when he limps forward to join his friends at the table. If he has any comment to make upon seeing Flynn preparing food, he swallows it. Maybe it's just the painkillers making him delirious, but whatever it is, Flynn is unspeakably thankful for that, because, as much as their relation has improved over the past missions, they are still far from amicable. And he wouldn’t want to tear into the man with his sarcasm when he’s already limping. So, ceasefire it is. For now.

Jiya is not far behind him and as soon as she is sure Wyatt has made it to the table, she settles beside her boyfriend.

Weirdly enough, having the entire team gathered around, waiting for him of all people to finish cooking, Flynn feels a tingle of nerves rush though his body. How ridiculous. He has lost so much, fought, killed, stolen and burned down parts of history almost single-handedly. Now the prospect of serving pancakes to a group of six people makes him edgy? Strange world.

He ignores it, scoops the cut fruit into a bowl and reaches for the huge stack of pancakes to set both on the table. Connor has distributed plates to all of them by now and Rufus has gleaned anything from the cupboards usable as topping. He even found a jar of blueberry jam. Who it belongs to and how long it has been there? Nobody knows. But it smells well enough and does contain enough sugar to still be edible.

They cease talking then to dig in. First, Flynn notices hesitancy. He has expected nothing else. Even if he wasn’t who he was, it still was his first cooking to be tasted. Soon enough, however, reluctance is abandoned altogether, and relaxed chatter picks up again. Flynn watches his success in covert satisfaction. It's these short-lived but lighthearted moments that prevent them from falling deeper into the abyss of worry and despair.

Flynn for himself has decided not to sit with them. He leans against the counter instead, munching on his own roll of bare pancake. He’s content watching them relax, not willing to intrude where he doesn’t feel he belongs.

Lucy is it who doesn’t have it. Of course it’s her. It always is. And he could never say no to her. Not when she smiles at him like that. A little shy, but clear, nonetheless.

Come sit with us, her gaze tells him. Again, there is no need for words between them. And the more time they spend with each other, the smoother this simple form of communication works for them. He enjoys it more than he would ever openly admit. It's their little secret and for once its something neither of them has to be ashamed of. And he can tell she likes it, too. But Lucy is at least as stubborn as Flynn himself. More so probably. So, he doesn’t push, doesn’t ask more than she is openly willing to give. He feels spoiled enough with what he has now. Such a precious connection.

Giving in to her silent pull, he sits beside her and leans back in his chair, arms crossed in faux confidence. He hovers above the conversation, doesn’t involve himself. They don’t need his snark now, so he keeps it bottled up. Well, they never do. But given his situation, he’d sooner or later explode if he didn’t vent the lingering frustration every now and then. He could almost hear his wife chiding him (lovingly), the paling memory curling the corners of his mouth upwards. He’d been a lot nicer then. Still, at odd times, when stressed or exhausted, she had been the receptor of his mocking nature. But somehow, almost magically, she had always managed to turn the tables, make him smile instead of sneer. He missed it.

“These are quite amazing. For pancakes. You’ll have to teach me sometime.”

It takes him a moment to register that the words had been directed at himself instead of the people surrounding him. Blinking, he processes. Agent Christopher watches him expectantly.

“What? Secret ingredient wasn’t in my unredacted file then?”

He almost flinches at his own gruff tone. Why not just say yes? Or nod? Being defensive and guarded or even provocative is so ingrained by now, he nearly does it on instinct. But the older woman doesn’t give up that easily. Not on the recipe. And not on the people she has taken under her wing in this battle. He knows that much. Sure enough, she doesn’t back down.

“Obviously not. Could you just write it down? You don’t have to show me in person.”

Lucy engages at that as she reaches for the bowl of fruit.

“Why don’t we keep all of them? Recipes, I mean. Write them down in say, yeah, laugh, a journal or something?”

Jiya beams at that as she hands her the desired bowl.

“Like a family cookbook?” She asks. “My aunt used to keep one of those. Took it to every family gathering. No good recipe would ever slip through her fingers.”

She convincingly imitates her aunt, urging party guests to reveal all their little precious culinary secrets. Her performance earns a collective laugh, but Flynn’s mind is still stuck on ‘family cookbook’. The words ring in his head as he watches the people gathered chatter on.

They are, in some way, he muses. Family.

The ‘weird uncle’, he has been entitled. Not quite worthy of a hug.

Denise pulls him out of his reverie once again.

“Honestly, you need to write it up. My kids would love these.”

Hell, how could he possible say no to that? That’s playing unfair, really. With a faint smile, he nods.

“Fine.”

Jiya claps excitedly at that, startling Wyatt, who almost drops his food and stares at her as if her good mood is somehow offending him personally. Flynn bites his tongue.

“It's settled then!” Jiya cheers, in spite of Wyatt’s discontent. Or maybe unaware of.

“Whenever one of us cooks something amazing, it will now be obligatory to write it into the ‘Time Team Family Cookbook!’”

Everyone agrees and she turns to face Flynn with a big smile. “And you’re gonna start. Spill all your secrets!”

He can’t help it. He grins, broad and honest. An expression that had been, until now, reserved solely for Lucy. But if he’s going to share anyways, he can share that too. After all, it feels so very nice and warm…

***

Lucy hears the door fall shut and the familiar sound of keys being dropped into the porcelain bowl Wyatt had gotten her for last Christmas. A thoughtful gift for once, after she had come late several times to their little family gatherings due to lost keys. It had become their tradition soon after Rittenhouse was taken down. A meeting once a month. None of them ever even hesitated to cancel any other obligation for their get-together. Next week she’ll see them all again. But for now, the thrill of anticipation rushing through her belongs to somebody else.

She could run to him now, meet him halfway, but she decides against it. There’s no need to rush him when he’s just come home. Waiting, she pours the first scoop of batter into the sizzling pan and watches it as it slowly turns solid. Footsteps behind her back betray his entry and she smiles. Next, her hair is softly swiped aside, arms settle around her waist and lips lightly meet her neck, a slight scratch of stubble speaking of his absence for more than a day. She leans into the touch.

“You’re home a day early,” she notes as she tips her head back to brush her nose against his cheek.

“I am.”

He peers down at the stove, the open cookbook beside it.

“Burning perfectly good food again?” He asks, jest glinting in the warmth of olive eyes.

She chuckles as his low voice rumbles through his chest against her back.

„Nah. Now that the chef’s back home, I won’t have to worry about that anymore, do I?“

The pancake burns anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> I went to great lengths to produce this single picture of Flynn's pancake recipe. I took the picture of Flynn's letter as reference to produce a template that I could use to make an actual font out of his handwriting. Then I used that font to type the recipe and edited it into a picture of a journal I own. The font does look nice, though. I really like it... xD


End file.
